


Penguin's Perilous Platoon (a Carefree and Comical Crossover)

by DwarvenBeardSpores, LauraDoloresIssum



Category: Batman (1966), Batman - All Media Types, Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alliteration, Gen, Humor, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 07:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9808715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraDoloresIssum/pseuds/LauraDoloresIssum
Summary: The Pazuzu 81st (aka the Shit Outta Luck Squad) has a new Commissar, who is nothing like they expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So LauraDoloresIssum and I were talking and this happened. Enjoy.

When Commissar Penguin showed up, we were in sad shape. We were the Pazuzu 81st, and for some reason we had the cursed luck to always see the worst of the fighting, even for a front-line regiment. The others tended to refer to us as the S. O. S., or “Shit Outta-Luck Squad”. Last few assignments in particular, well, we’d lost more than we’d gained, and that included our old Commissar. Not that any of us had liked him much, but it was still a downer when his exploding body kept invading our nightmares.

It was easily one in the morning when Penguin arrived, but we were all wide awake. Sleeping was very unattractive to us in those days. Still is, in fact, but it was a positive dread then. Goon and Redshirt were teaching Henchman and Underling how to play Fizzbin, and Goon laughed with that desperate edge he had every time they forgot the rules. Lackey had been doing pushups in the corner for almost half an hour (and don’t think anyone missed Mook watching her with that appreciative eye she had). C.F. was still praying. And me? Cleaning out my gun for the fifth time in as many hours. Got to make sure everything’s in working order, don’t we? Disassemble, scrub, examine, polish, reassemble. Keep those hands moving.

We were a mess. 

But except for C.F. and Redshirt, we all snapped to attention when the door opened and that hat came through the doorway. Shining with authority, familiar but at the same time different. And beneath it the man who was to be our new leader.

The guy was… distinctive, I guess you’d say. Short and round with a real beak of a nose. He walked with a limp that made it seem like he’d seen some action, but the shine to his buttons and the press of his suit made it seem like that hadn’t been recent. He had an honest-to-Emperor gold monocle and a lho sticking out of a long holder like he was the petty tyrant lording it over some moon. _Fancy_. That was the word. He smelled strong. I couldn’t place it, but Henchman was from the coast and he made the connection first. 

“Fish,” he muttered. “Real fresh fish.”

A ripple ran through the rest of us. Anything resembling real food was impossible to get out here. Out anywhere, except maybe the Imperium planets on a good day. 

He opened his mouth and released a loud “Waugh, waugh, waugh!” that snagged our attention like a hook, even through the shellshock permeating the barracks. Redshirt jumped, C.F. looked up from her prayers. I remember wondering for a second if he even spoke Gothic. But he did. Alliteratively, even. 

“Stand up, you heinous heretics! A new day has dawned for the Pazuzu 81st Line Infantry! From now on, you’re taking your orders from me, Commissar Penguin.”

“Yes, Sir!” was the proper reply. And maybe if we’d been in top form we would’ve given it. But I just saw him, heard that name, and it was all I could do to not fall over laughing. _This_ guy was gonna lead us into battle? He was gonna lead us to our graves, even faster than we’d get there ourselves. 

The group quivered collectively, but Redshirt was already on the end of his rope, and he actually snickered. Out loud, where even Commissar Penguin could hear. 

That sobered us all up like a slap to the face.

The Commissar’s eyes widened, his attention snapped to Redshirt. The poor guy didn’t even have a chance to react when this uncanny gun was pointed at his neck. Didn’t even look like a gun, it was covered in these flaps or something, but it clicked like one as the Commissar readied it.

“What’s this?” he spat. “What’s this? A flimsy, fatuous fink like you dares to find me a fool?”

“N-no sir,” Redshirt said. “No, of course not.” 

“And a lying fink as well.” The Commissar narrowed his eyes. “That I can work with.”

And the gun discharged straight into Redshirt’s shoulder. He yelled and fell to the ground, but none of us dared to go to his rescue. He writhed a bit and made noise, but that was okay. That meant whatever the Commissar had done hadn't killed him.

“Who’s next?” the Commissar said, scanning the rest of our faces. Apparently he liked the results, and the gun lowered. “Now hear this!” he snapped. “I’ve seen your reports, and do you know what the lousy lot of you have been so far?”

Silence stretched. No one knew what he wanted. Well, Redshirt groaned a little bit, and finally Underling crouched down to help. He was the best at medicae now that Stooge was gone.

“Cannon fodder!” Commissar Penguin barked finally.

C.F. started. “Yes, sir? I… I don’t know, sir.”

“What? No— I wasn’t talking to you.” Commissar Penguin scowled. “I was saying that the lot of you are nothing but cannon fodder.” 

“Actually,” C.F. said, “I’m the only one who—”

“ _Fine._ I’ll put it another way for you nearsighted numbskulls. You’re all expendable.”

This time I was the one to start. “No, sir, I’m the only one called—”

“WAUGH, WAUGH, WAUGH!” The Commissar slammed his gun on the ground so hard the flaps opened up to create what looked like an upside-down parachute. “What I’m _trying to say_ is that none of you matter! You’re all going to die horribly on the battlefield and no one will even notice your demise.”

Personally, I found that to be old news. 

“Or that is to say, you _were._ ” The Commissar lifted his gun-parachute-thing and rested it over his shoulder. His monocle glinted avariciously. “But not anymore! Because as of today, you are a part of Penguin’s Perilous Platoon, and you are going on to bigger, and better things!” 

I shared a glance with Lackey. She shrugged, but there was a spark of interest in her eyes. She wasn’t as jaded as some of us. She had only been shot twice since Tuesday.

“We are destined to be the scourge of space, the warriors of the Warp, and the most righteous regiment this galaxy has ever seen! Do you hear me?”

It wasn’t like we had a choice in the matter. Commissars didn’t operate based on what we wanted. But the “Yes, Sir!” we responded with had more energy to it than I would have thought possible. Maybe it was an impossibility, but notoriety was more appealing than the nameless suffering we had now.

“And the first thing we shall do,” Penguin shouted, “is wipe out those heretic rebels down on Skadi II! Be ready to head out in fifteen, you fearful blink-finks! WAUGH WAUGH WAUGH WAUGH.” And he waddled out without another word.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feel free to let us know what you think!


End file.
